


Quest 07: Dishonour Among Thieves

by FictionCookie



Series: Of Gods and Men [7]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-12-22 16:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21079970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionCookie/pseuds/FictionCookie
Summary: Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end...





	1. Traveller's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Jahaan had always existed as a ‘have sword’ and ‘will travel’ kind of person.

He had run across a few hapless souls in his travels, requesting his assistance in one way or another, and he’d obliged as much as he could - being an adventurer, it came with the territory. Then there were those people that weren’t as much ‘hapless’ as they were ‘helpless’, like a chef that didn’t have the right ingredients and for  _ some reason _ couldn’t just walk to the farm and get some himself; Jahaan tried to help them anyway. Reward was always promised, and he ate well that night.

Then there were the outright bizarre situations Jahaan didn’t realise he was stuck in the middle of until he was playing matchmaker between a yeti and a Fremennik queen, or brewing rum for pirates to keep the alcoholic zombies at bay, or stealing footwear for a genie who requested the ‘sole’ of the Mayor of Nardah.

Life in the adventuring world was crazy sometimes.

Now that he’d become the World Guardian, things had only gotten worse. Seems like everyone thinks Guthix’s ‘chosen one’ can solve their problems, and no amount of explaining the whole ‘right place, right time’ mantra helped. Still, if he was being brutally honest with himself, Jahaan quite liked the attention, the travelling, the questing… all the reasons he’d set off from Menaphos with sword in hand in the first place.

This time, he ended up playing matchmaking for trolls, gave marriage counselling to a seagull, helped liberate the fairies from the ork invaders, invented bacon and, best of all, dealt with penguins wanting to take over Gielinor and trying to freeze the desert with a portable fridge.

_ Sir Tiffy was right all along. _

Still, he found it quite refreshing to not be dealing with any egocentric gods, or idiot Mahjarrat trying to ascend to godhood.

That was a nice change.

“...and then, the the goblin generals needed orange slices that weren’t orange, some maggots that weren’t bland, and some bread that wasn’t crunchy!”

Jahaan had finally met up with Ozan all the way back in Varrock after he’d promised to help Queen Ellamaria decorate her palace garden - the ordeal was NOT worth Her Royal Snobbishness’ behaviour - and began recounting his tales since the two departed almost eight months ago. It had been a long time apart, yes, but life had separated them in the past. Some way, somehow, they always found one another, usually at a bar. This time it was The Blue Moon Inn, quite near the centre of the city, and therefore packed to the brim with the usual Varrockian riff-raff. Most of the attention was around the famous ex-vampyre slayer, Dr Harlow, who’d stopped by for an ale on his way east.

Chuckling, Ozan took another glug of his bitter. “So what did you do?”

“Dye and spice was involved. The pot ended up exploding anyway - shot through the roof and all! It’s a miracle there was anything edible after that.”

“Well, they are goblins.”

“Aye, that they are,” Jahaan concurred, finishing up his drink. The cup was refilled before he had time to protest. “So how’s Ariane?”

“She’s alright, but spending a lot of time in the Wizards’ Tower as of late. She had a premonition about the tower up in flames. Ariane was a seer - you gotta take visions like that seriously, y’know?”

Biting his bottom lip, Jahaan agreed, “Of course. These seer and gypsy types are frighteningly accurate sometimes…”

After Ozan finished his round, he looked out of the window into the night sky and remarked, “Damn, how long have we been in here?”

“Enough to build up quite a nice tab,” the barman sauntered over with a smug smile, wiping down the spillage underneath Ozan’s glass.

Wincing, Ozan ventured, “No chance I could reduce that tab with an enthralling tale of how I stole Sir Vyvin’s armour?”

“No chance,” the bartender asserted, his smile broadening. “And you owe me for the damage that little troll runt of yours has caused.”

Eyes wide, Ozan bulked, “Don’t call Coal a runt!”

“Whatever,” he slid across a messily written tally on papyrus. “Here’s the tab. Cough up.”

After shilling out his hefty portion of the tab, his coin pouch feeling an awful lot lighter now, Ozan and Jahaan departed to their rooms, saying they’d meet up in the morning to walk to Draynor together. Jahaan had some unfinished business with a chef in Lumbridge, so it wasn’t too far out of his way.

Jahaan entered his rented room and closed the door behind him, the sounds of the Varrockian bustle fading into the background. 

However, that didn’t last for long; the familiar sounds of a teleport spell alerted him to the intruder’s presence first, and he drew his swords in the direction of the disruption.

Soldiers had come into the war hospital in Al Kharid telling stories of a twisted, hybrid of a woman. Something inhuman, but not like any race they’d ever encountered. She was Zamorak’s right hand, a fierce general under his command. Gold-plated armour clawed around her bony form, her skin iron-like with patches of something that resembled normal flesh, but hardened and slightly scaly. Magenta energy twirled itself around her arms and wrists constantly, a low crackle becoming white noise in Jahaan’s mind. Her eyes were a striking shade of pink, too, matching the gem she had embedded in her forehead.

“Greetings, World Guardian,” her voice was harsh and brittle as she remarked, “You are not a hard man to find.”

Jahaan edged a couple of inches backwards, allowing the tall woman room to breathe. “I know you. You were at the Battle of Lumbridge.”

“Moia,” the woman introduced, simply. “Your swords. I’m not here to parry. Put them away.”

“A stranger just barged into my hostel room. Forgive me if I’m less than welcoming.”

Sighing, Moia rubbed the crystal on her forehead. “Very well. I come here on behalf of my master. He wishes to recruit you to retrieve something of his. The reward will be handsome.”

“No need to mince words - you want me to steal something,” this wasn’t the first time he’d been requested to ‘retrieve’ something. Jahaan didn’t mind - it paid for his meals, after all. “What’s the prize?”

“The Stone of Jas.”

Jahaan did a double take, his expectations shooting up. “Oh yeah? And who’s your master?”

“The rightful god of Gielinor, Lord Zamorak.”

...and his expectations were thus cut down a little bit. “Yeah, I haven’t had many dealings with Zamorakians.”

“Isn’t it time you rectify that?” Moia suggested, impatience bubbling under her desperate attempt to appear civil. “I did not see you fighting for Saradomin in Lumbridge. There is hope for you yet.”

“Yeah, but didn’t Zamorak lose at Lumbridge?” the remark wasn’t meant to sound as insulting as it did, but when Jahaan saw the mist boiling around Moia’s palms, he regretted his careless tongue.

Swallowing hard, Moia forced the mist to decapitate. “They were dark days. Zamorak is healing, and will get revenge upon those who fought against him. But right now, there are more pressing matters. I repeat: the Stone of Jas.”

Jahaan inquired, “Why does Zamorak want to hire me? I’ve never exactly seen eye-to-eye with his chaos ideology.”

“My lord believes you are instrumental, and if he does, then so do I,” Moia explained, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “We are in need of your… unique skills.”

“Because I’m the World Guardian?” Jahaan surmised. It wasn’t a hard guess.

“Precisely. Somehow, your fate is bound to the events that are unfolding. We wish for you to be on the right side of history. Zamorak requests a meeting. Agree, and you shall discover where your true loyalties should lie. Assist in our mission, and you get to strip Sliske of his power source and end his little farce once and for all.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Jahaan began to grin. “The least I could do is hear him out.”

Moia didn’t smile. Jahaan didn’t think she was capable. Instead, she retrieved a device from her utility belt. It was a tiny little box with a dial on it. Nothing fancy. Handing it to Jahaan, she stated, “Use this to be transported to our headquarters. You will arrive promptly on Erysail at full sun.”

Sheathing his swords, Jahaan took the device, and after a brief ‘farewell’, Moia teleported herself away. Jahaan watched her form fade away, utterly baffled, fiddling with the device in his hands as a reminder that he didn’t just dream that encounter.

Slumping down on the edge of the bed, he tried to think why Moia looked so familiar, and yet so alien at the same time. She didn’t match the description of any race he’d ever heard of, let alone encountered.  _ That gem in her forehead was rather beautiful, _ he thought to himself, trying to unravel the mysteries of this woman.  _ It looked like… like the Mahjarrat gems. Was she another female Mahjarrat, like Enakhra? She wasn’t at the Ritual, and she doesn’t look completely like a Mahjarrat. A half-breed, perhaps? Is that possible? _

Suddenly, it tweaked in Jahaan’s mind -  _ It IS possible! Sliske mentioned Lucien mated with a human woman. Could Moia be the offspring? _

Feeling rather chuffed at his deductions, Jahaan was tempted to ask for confirmation upon next meeting her, but realised in good time that might be a little rude.

Removing his sword belt, Jahaan let these thoughts twirl on inside his mind as he began to unwind. Erysail was three days away, so he had time to decide whether or not he was going to take the meeting.

_ “What a tantalising proposition!” _

“Gahh!” Jahaan bolted forwards, his hand instinctively clutching into the handle of his sheathed dagger. He shot around with indignation in his eyes and saw Sliske materialise in the doorway. “Have you been here the whole time?!”

Tutting, Sliske replied, “Honestly Jahaan, what’s the use of having the ability to see into the Shadow Realm if you never use it?”

“That’s not answering my question!”

“Ah, you mean, did I hear your conversation with Moia? But of course! The girl was naive to think she could corner you without my knowing. Oh, and take your hand away from that little knife of yours. We both know you’re not going to use it.”

Jahaan didn’t budge. “Why are you here, Sliske?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Sliske began, “I know of Zamorak's plan to steal the Stone of Jas, and you know I know, but they don’t know that I know that they know.”

Jahaan shook his muddled head. “Wait... what?”

“Ha! Did I lose you? In short, I know that one of Zamorak’s agents has found the Stone, and they’ll come for it soon enough. When they do, I'll be waiting.”

“So... you want them to find it? Why?”

“My contest has slowed somewhat since Bandos's death. Sometimes a Mahjarrat must provide his own entertainment. I think it’s time to spice things up,” Sliske explained, casually making himself at home on the edge of Jahaan’s bed, his long and bony fingers exploring the floral patterns embedded in the duvet. Jahaan followed him with a calculated glare. “You know, you really aren’t a very welcoming host. You haven’t even offered me a drink.”

“You were saying?” Jahaan impatiently pressed, thinking the sooner the Mahjarrat got to the point, the sooner his hostel room would stop resembling a menagerie for the criminally insane.

“Right, yes, spicing things up - that's where you come in. If I were you, I’d lead them on, go and meet with ol’ Zammy. Then, wait until the most deliciously dramatic moment to betray the usurper! Together, we could have some real fun on this one.”

“And who says I’ll play along?” Jahaan challenged, smiling wryly. “Maybe I’ll like what Zamorak’s selling. Maybe I’ll join his cause.”

“Maybe you will... but that would be terribly boring now, wouldn’t it? You know, Zammy really is a lot of fun to deceive. Oh, how I used to play with him all those years ago…” Sliske stood up from the bed, his hunched over posture doing him a favour as Jahaan doubted he could stand up straight without hitting his head on the ceiling. “But I think you’re  _ much  _ more fun to play with, Janny.”

Jahaan forced himself not to flinch as Sliske approached him, half-lidded eyes and an amused smile carved into his striped face. He failed and shivered ever so slightly when Sliske cupped his chin, bony fingers digging lightly into his throat, tilting his head upwards.

The grip on his dagger tightened. Jahaan gulped, hissing sharply through gritted teeth, “Get off me.”

This only made Sliske smile more at the challenge; he leered down closer. “Or what?”

Sliske had barely gotten the last syllable out before Jahaan had his blade across the Mahjarrat’s throat, returning the challenging glare.

Sniffing a laugh, Sliske drawled, “Well, I did say to look me in the eyes as you slit my throat. So, what are you waiting for?”

He forced himself further into the blade, biting down on his grey flesh hard enough to draw a thin line of blood as his face loomed closer to Jahaan’s, his defiant eyes never leaving Jahaan’s green ones.

Matching this, Jahaan twisted the blade in such a way that it pressed tightly against the Mahjarrat’s jugular, watching with satisfaction as Sliske’s usual calm and collected expression flashed briefly with fleeting panic.

Sliske licked his lips and flashed a daring, thin smile. Seconds ticked on like years; Jahaan held his gaze steady, dancing across Sliske’s yellow iris’ which had an unmistakable glint in them.

_ It’d be so easy, _ Jahaan’s eyes narrowed into slits, steadying his breathing in order to prevent his hand from shaking, which was easier said than done. From the look in his eyes, it was almost as if Sliske was daring him to do it.

_I could._ _I could and he couldn’t stop me. He’s pressed too hard into the blade. It’d barely take a second and I could put him out of my misery. Out of everyone’s misery._

Now his hands really were shaking; Jahaan couldn’t look Sliske in the eyes anymore and instead rested his glare upon Sliske’s jaw, which soon transformed into a cruel upturned sneer. Blood trickled down Sliske’s neck as Jahaan’s unsteady grip caused the blade to scrape against his flesh; Jahaan could feel the rhythm of Sliske’s pulse beating against the metal, but he knew his own heartbeat was going even faster. As the blade dug dangerously deeper into the flesh, Sliske inhaled a sharp breath, hissing through the pain that came with it. 

Jahaan’s grip on the handle tightened; he was properly shaking now, closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep some resolve.

But it didn’t work.

With a foul curse, Jahaan threw the blade to the ground, a loud metallic clang on the battered wooden floorboards reverberating around the room. He tried to gain some distance from the Mahjarrat by backing himself up against the wall. By accident he met Sliske’s gaze, and it was a mistake, for it was like Sliske’s eyes were claws that grabbed his throat, squeezing tightly and cutting off the circulation. It made Jahaan’s attempt to recover his breathing even more of a struggle.

Sliske wiped the blood from his neck with his palm, examining it amusedly.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he remarked, a malicious undertone layered in his voice.

Gulping, Jahaan’s eyes fell to the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck and whispered, “Leave, Sliske. Please… just go.”

Raising a curious eyebrow, Sliske examined Jahaan like he was looking at him for the very first time. “You're an interesting specimen, Jahaan,” he finally spoke up. “Very well, I shall take my leave. After all, you have to regain your composure for the big meeting with Zamorak. Until next time... ta-ta, my dear…”

Blowing him a taunting kiss, Sliske vanished. Once he'd gone, Jahaan slid down the wall and onto the floor, his hand unconsciously still at his neck while his heart remained firmly in his throat.

Jahaan didn’t wait for Ozan next morning. Instead, he slid an apologetic note under the door, lying about an emergency - vague enough to cover all bases, specific enough to be believable. From the silence inside when Jahaan rested his ear against the splintered wooden door, Ozan was still sound asleep, and would likely stay that way for the next few hours. So, huddled up in a second-hand cloak he’d acquired, Jahaan set off into the brisk chill of a Varrockian dawn.

He wasn’t ready to explain himself to Ozan, how he had the opportunity to dispatch Gielinor’s greatest adversary, but couldn’t. But at the same time, Jahaan didn’t think he could take hiding it from Ozan much longer. Thus, the easiest option was to avoid him altogether, for now at least, until he’d figured things out in his own mind.

After tossing and turning for a lot of the night, Jahaan wasn’t much clearer on anything, so why a walk in the freezing cold would help is anyone’s guess. Nevertheless, along he trudged.

_ Why couldn’t I do it? _ The question haunted his mind relentlessly.  _ I’ve killed people for less. Why couldn’t I kill him? _

Jahaan sighed to himself, hoisting his backpack further up towards his shoulders, marching onwards, going nowhere.

“Damnit Sliske…” he muttered under his breath. “How dare you get in my head…”


	2. Abstract of Zamorak

“Care for a drink?” Zamorak held out an engraved chalice, the inscription a foreign dialect that was painful to look at. “I don’t know why assholes come into my churches and steal my wine. I’d make a mint if I just straight up sold it. Go legitimate and all.”

So yes, Jahaan did take the meeting. Right on time he used the communication device that whisked him away… somewhere. He was underground, that’s for sure. The claustrophobic feel of gravity assured him of that.

Zamorak had invited him into a chamber of sorts, akin to the dining room of a haunted mansion. The deity really did have a taste for the theatrical, what with the vampyric ornaments and arcane fixtures. Also, crimson. LOTS of crimson.

Zamorak practically blended into the walls.

He sat Jahaan down in a grand armchair of sorts, donned with decorative bones, and it made Jahaan feel like a supervillain.

Sniffing a faint laugh, Jahaan took the chalice and allowed Zamorak to fill it up to the brim with the thick red liquid, dark like blood. That last thought gave Jahaan pause before he put it to his lips, but after a quick sniff and being overwhelmed by the alcoholic, fruity scent, he assured himself it was indeed wine. “Thanks. I didn’t think Mahjarrat could drink, though.”

“We can’t,” Zamorak confirmed, taking a large gulp. “I’ll have to get it out of me later. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some good booze for now though.”

Not wanting to press for anymore details, Jahaan asked, “Where on Gielinor are we? Are… are we still on Gielinor?”

Laughing, Zamorak said, “Of course we’re still on Gielinor. This is temporary base of operations, courtesy of an old friend of mine - Bilrach - who you’ll meet later on. Dug the place himself, crazy bastard. Crazy, loyal, dedicated bastard, that is. You humans would know of it as ‘Daemonheim’.”

Eyes wide, Jahaan audibly gasped. Yes, he had heard of Daemonheim, mainly from stories. A band of Fremennik warriors decided to sail west around the globe, discovering uncharted islands and unclaimed lands as they did so. Daemonheim was their greatest find. Despite being a part of continental Gielinor, no-one had ventured that far in centuries, the unforgiving terrain putting a fatal halt to would-be adventurers. Thanks to the Freminnick, the place was now accessible, though you should pray for those who dare to enter the dungeons beneath the ancient castle atop the snow. Floor upon floor of monsters, puzzles, hazards and traps. No-one had ever made it to the bottom floor; the lucky ones retreated to the surface, the others were not so fortunate. No-one knew who had built such a place, or why. No-one, it seems now, except Jahaan.

Smirking, Zamorak remarked, “I’m glad you’re impressed. Not many have had the honour of stepping on such hallowed ground. It’s a good place to regroup, after the battle with Saradomin didn’t go as well as planned…”

“Yeah, how are the Zamorakians taking the defeat?” Jahaan inquired, taking a sip of the wine, far too bitter for his tastes.

“Better than you’d think. We lost a lot of forces, but I’m still swinging, and so are my Mahjarrat. Now I’m gonna to bypass this ridiculous little contest of Sliske’s and take back the Stone. Let’s see Saradomin stand tall then!”

Zamorak took a sip from his red wine, his eyes thoughtful and calculated, as the silence stretched on. After a while, he finally spoke up, “World Guardian, have you ever been told about Sliske’s plays?”

Jahaan furrowed his brow, stopping mid-sip, suddenly worried. “No…”

Zamorak grinned, the flesh stretching and pulling across bone. “Man, you’re going to love this. Sliske’s always been a twisted bastard, but this put it to whole new heights. See, back in the days of the Zarosian Empire, we Mahjarrat were given pretty high-class roles - our reward for taking out the Menaphites. Half of us got chosen as generals and lieutenants in the army - known as 'Legati' in Infernal - while the other half were churchleaders, or 'Pontifixes'. Sliske, due to his…  _ unusual predilections _ ... was given the rank of Praefectus Praetorio - the head of Senntisten’s secret police. Investigation, spying, interrogation… you can see how the role was built for him. In his free time, he was always writing. Stories, plays, even pathetic attempts at poetry. His plays were the most fucked up, performed for the top ranks of Senntisten, like urbane demons, bureaucrats… you know, the types of assholes that could afford to watch his nonsense. To make the plays, he rounded up the low caste and homeless, dressed them up in costumes, and placed upon each a crude wooden mask, which he whittled himself. Sliske gave the word, and the masks started doing their thing; they’d speak aloud, control the actor’s movements, making ‘em jerkily act and mime his play like demented puppets. Sometimes the actors actually stabbed each other to death with their weapons at the play's climax. In one show, one of the actors died - probably of some disease - in the middle of the performance, but the mask kept animating his corpse and the show went on. Sick, right? Worst part is, the audience lapped it up! Sliske went on to perform it about a dozen or so more times before growing bored - as he is prone to do - and moving onto something else. No-one dared speak up against him. After all, who wants to be at the centre of a Praetorian investigation?”

Mouth hung open, Jahaan sat there in horror, his mind doing him the courtesy of picturing every grotesque and gruesome detail. He was starting to feel nauseous because of it, and the wine probably wasn’t helping matters. It took him a while before he could collect himself enough to exclaim, “Didn’t… didn’t Wahisietel say something?!”

Zamorak laughed sharply and so suddenly that Jahaan spilt a bit of his wine. “His brother gave up on his ways long before that. Sliske’s always been fucked in the head, even back on Freneskae, playing with corpses with childlike glee. There’s something seriously wrong with him. There was one of our kind, old Nabor - boring as dry brick but he was pretty sharp. He ran the insane asylum in Senntisten, became quite the psychologist while he did. He once remarked to me how he’d love to study Sliske, to really figure out what was up with him. Never dared invite him for a session, though. I used to see him and Wahisietel chatting - they were close. No doubt Sliske came up in their conversations.”

Jahaan made a mental note to confer with Wahisietel when the opportunity arose.

But in all this, one thing became clear to him more than ever before: Sliske knew everything about him, but he knew nothing of Sliske.

Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, Jahaan rounded back to something less… horrifying. “Senntisten doesn’t seem like such a bad place. Your kind were well taken care of, from what you tell me, so why’d you leave Zaros?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Zamorak confessed, his fingers, unblemished and marble-white, scratching absently at his face. “Ask my followers and they’ll all tell you a different story. Some think it was just a political coup, that I wanted to gain power with no endgame, or that I’d had a falling out with the ‘Empty Lord’. Truth is, we needed to break free from Zaros. He wanted to know our every move, our every thought. When we went on missions, Zaros made us take along a man named Perjour, someone he’d cursed to be his bibliographer. Everything thought that man had, every single thing he witnessed, would be transcribed in a little book, which Zaros would sift through, looking for any seeds of betrayal from his followers. It was oppressing.”

“So how did you get around that?” Jahaan inquired, drawn in by the energy Zamorak brought to his tales.

Grinning wickedly, Zamorak boasted, “I stole the book, switched it with a copy. Zaros was none the wiser. And thus, the seeds of rebellion were sewn.”

The last comment was followed by a wink as he swirled around the wine in his class, looking all-too proud of himself. It seemed all Mahjarrat were capable of that unique form of unnerving smugness.

But something still stuck in Jahaan’s craw; he hesitated, and Zamorak picked up on this. “Come on, just come out with it.”

Exhaling deeply, Jahaan begun, “Alright… your chaos theory hasn’t been painted in the best light across Gielinor. Is all of it really propaganda? What about the Culinaromancer? Count Malak? Lord Iban? And don’t get me started on those dark wizards…”

Rolling his eyes, Zamorak’s annoyance looked of one who had dealt with this before. “Okay, yes, we have a few bad eggs. It’s a damn shame cos we started out so promising. Many came to me because they were fleeing or rejecting some aspect of authority within the Empire, and a philosophy that prized individuality over structure, society or government was just what they were after. But over time this developed into a very unhealthy anarchism; some followers ‘misinterpret’ my philosophy, twisting my words and using it as an excuse to steal, torment, attack… wanting to watch the world burn is nothing I’ve ever preached. But Saradominsts take these few radicals and think we’re all like that. They spew out propaganda against us, saying we’re all evil monsters and anarchists. The few have ruined it for the many.”

“I hate that people think I’m evil,” Zamorak continued, gulping down another swig of wine and instantly refilling himself. “Yeah, I’ve done some pretty bad shit in my time, but who hasn’t? War is messy. If you want your hands clean, become a chef. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for the betterment of my followers, for the Mahjarrat, and for Gielinor. Saradominism is all about ‘join with me and you’ll never have strife again’. We all know that’s just bullshit. Zamorakianism is all about ‘strength through chaos’, about knowing that life can deal you a crappy hand, but it’s that struggle and misery that can shape who you are and make you into a stronger, better person. Take you, World Guardian - I doubt your life has been all roses and daisies, right?”

“You could say that.”

“I AM saying that. But tell me, think back… if all that hadn’t happened to you, would you be where you are now, decked out in fine armour, drinking fine wine, talking to a damn fine god?”

A thin smile spread across Jahaan’s face. He  _ understood _ .

As Zamorak spoke more about his chaos philosophy, Jahaan was inclined to buy what Zamorak was selling. A lot of his ideologies matched with Jahaan’s own views, and the deity was nothing if not captivating.

_ It’s just a shame some of his followers are so unbearable,  _ Jahaan internally groaned at the thought of Zemouregal.

But then again, when it came to philosophy, Jahaan’s world view overlapped a lot with that of Zarosianism. Guthixianism, too. After all, once you’re there for the final words of one of the world’s most powerful deities, you form a  _ connection _ .

Saradominsm did have some decent arguments, Jahaan would admit to himself, but he could never fall on board with the ideology, and definitely not the lifestyle. As for Armadyl, he hadn’t ever really heard much from the winged deity, aside from his triumph over Bandos. It was too early to call a judgement on him yet.

There was always the Menaphite Pantheon, the ‘go-to’ religion for the desert-born.

_ Gahh… these labels serve more harm than good… _ Jahaan grumbled to himself, fighting down another gulp of the wine.

While Zamorak tended to some business, the details of which he never specified, Jahaan was offered a teleport to the central chamber of the lair. Feeling it might be considered rude to refuse, and not wanting to accidentally go through the wrong door into one of Daemonheim’s rumoured horror chambers, Jahaan accepted, and with Jahaan’s permission, Zamorak's spell whisked him away.

The centre part of the lair Jahaan was as over the top as it was terrifying. Complete with lava fountains, torches of tall flames and crackling fire, grotesque chiselled statues of beasts and nightmares, and a crimson tiled floor with the Zamorakian symbol crudely embedded into it… this place didn’t exactly scream ‘happy fun time’. In fact, if Zamorak was trying to shake the ‘evil villain’ image the Saradominist propaganda department were creating, this wasn’t helping.

The chamber wasn’t massive in size, but its grandiose excessiveness more than made up for it.

Jahaan manifested in the centre of the room; a throne comprised of black marble and blood red horns strung across it directly faced him, while short hallways to the east and west had imposing doors adorned with skulls at either end.

The heat was also comparable to that of Freneskae.

Immediately, countless sets of eyes leered at him from all around, the present company of gathered Zamorakians all stopping to size up the newest arrival.

Feeling awkward, but not wanting to let it show, Jahaan strode over to one of the large pillars and casually leaned up against it, crossing his arms over his chest with an air of defiance, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be here. However, he carefully avoided eye contact with anyone, subtly exploring the room with a low glance.

There were two Mahjarrat that Jahaan didn’t recognise from the Ritual of Rejuvenation. One, a bulky looking fellow draped in thick, tattered cloaks. There was a presence about him, a power that rattled through his very being. He looked solid; while all Mahjarrat are technically immortal, this one actually  _ felt  _ it. It was almost unnerving. Yet, undermining that were his eyes - they looked haunted, flicking between the ceiling, the walls, the floor, like he was hearing sounds from all directions and trying to gravitate towards the strongest voice.

_ But if he missed the Ritual, why doesn’t he look all... half-dead? _ Jahaan pondered to himself, hoping he didn’t look like he was staring.

The other Mahjarrat, on the other hand, did look worse for wear. Hazeel, he was known as. Jahaan had heard stories about his cult of followers in Ardougne, and how he’d ruled over the lands way back in the Fourth Age with brutality and fear. It was the Carnillean Family that became his end, alongside Saradominist peasants who, upon learning magic and runecrafting, wished to liberate their lands from the Zamorakian tyranny. They didn’t manage to kill Hazeel, but they trapped him in a state of torpor, neither living nor dead. His skeletal appearance did have a rather blood-curdling quality about it. Unlike the other Mahjarrat, he had very large horns protruding from his forehead, looking quite similar to the headpiece Azzanadra wore. These, however, were sharpened into deadly points.

Jahaan wasn’t quite sure how the two Mahjarrat could look so different - one full of life and vigor, the other frail and weak.

_ If I tread carefully, perhaps I could find out?  _ Jahaan thought to himself, not quite looking forward to conversing with even more Zamorakian Mahjarrat than he had to, but his curiosity drove him onwards.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he strolled over to the rejuvenated looking one, greeting him with a respectful nod of his head. “I’m Jahaan. Zamorak sent for me. I don’t think we’ve met before...”

The trailed-off sentence was an indication to fill in the blanks, but the Mahjarrat seemed rather perturbed at Jahaan’s presence. Jahaan didn’t think he was going to get a response and planned on awkwardly shuffling away, pretending that never happened as he did so, but the Mahjarrat’s sudden response startled him into staying. “Bilrach. I am Bilrach. Forgive me, human contact is taking some getting used to.”

_ Seems nice enough, _ Jahaan decided with relief. Not wanting to let the conversation go dry for too long, he continued, “Pleased to meet you, Bilrach. I was at the last Ritual of Rejuvenation, but I don’t remember seeing you there. You… you look well, though. Lots of… skin.”

“I was digging,” Bilrach bluntly replied. “Always digging, digging, digging… they thought this to be my tomb, but it was my salvation. The rift did not provide answers alone, though.”

Quickly, Jahaan deduced Bilrach was not shuffling with a full deck. "Ah yes, Zamorak mentioned that you dug this place yourself."

Bilrach nodded. “Centuries I dug, trying to find the rift between realities, the place where the bond between worlds is at its weakest. Here, I was going to find Zamorak and pull him back to Gielinor. I did not succeed, but this chamber is the product of my labour.”

“But if you missed the Ritual, how come you look so powerful?” Jahaan inquired, hoping the subtle compliment would work in his favour.

From the shift in Bilrach's demeanor, it seemed to work. “Ah, yes! Instead, after tumbling through the dimensions, I arrived on my home planet of Freneskae. There are no longer any of my kind there, but other tribes once existed. The Chelon-Mah and Mahserrat, born from the same energy as we Mahjarrat. It was then that I had an epiphany. Hmm.”

Silence. After it was clear Bilrach was indeed lost inside his own head, Jahaan gently prodded, “And what was that?”

“Ah, yes. The other tribes were also bound to rituals, needing the life force of those that perish to sustain themselves. The Mahserrat decided to forgo this process, resigning themselves to a fate without rejuvenation. But the Chelon-Mah… hmm. The Chelon-Mah did the opposite. They concluded that only the strongest should live, yes. One almighty being, commanding the power of the entire tribe. I remember it. The battle blazed across the horizon – a glorious sight to behold, indeed. For weeks they fought tirelessly, until only one remained with all their power. A brutal incarnation of the Chelon-Mah tribe; the physical embodiment of war. Yes, his might on the battlefield was unparalleled.”

“What does this have to do with your epiphany?”

“Epiphany?” Bilrach blinked. “Oh, yes. I knew that after thousands of years whilst the Mahjarrat have grown stronger, the Chelon-Mah would have diminished. With the Mahserrat all likely to have perished and no kin to sacrifice, he would never have been able to rejuvenate. I returned to Gielinor with the once-great Chelon-Mah captive. I slew him upon my very own Ritual Marker.”

Jahaan gasped. “That worked?!”

“Apparently so. The rejuvenation was an unintended effect of his death. A strange power spread throughout the surface - you may have even felt it yourself. My kin would have believed me perished. But I live.”

“But if you didn’t know you’d be rejuvenated, why did you kill him?”

“On Freneskae we were at war with the Chelon-Mah; with no kin left to test his strength he turned to the Mahjarrat,” Bilrach gravely explained, his eyes flitting over to the two doorways parallel to him. “He killed many of my brethren. Taking his life was a justice long overdue. As the only Mahjarrat at the Ritual Marker when I slew him, I was able to absorb all his power, hmm. I thought I could use this new power to bring back Zamorak. Alas, I still did not find the answers I sought. It would seem it is exceptionally difficult for anyone but a god to open a portal between worlds.”

Remembering Zamorak’s words from before, Jahaan thought to inquire into why Bilrach defected from Zaros to Zamorak, but by the change in tone and demeanour he received from Bilrach, he wished he’d never rocked the boat.

“You know nothing of the Mahjarrat, impling, and neither did Zaros,” Bilrach’s gravelly voice sounded like he’d inhaled too much Daemonheim dust. Though his voice was monotonous and grounded, his eyes seemed to dart and flicker. “We were warriors, brave survivors. In the Empire we grew soft. Zaros took our culture from us, tried to tame our nature, making us priests and bureaucrats - such positions are a disgrace to the Mahjarrat name! Zamorak reminded us of our birthright.”

“Ah, I see you’re getting yourself acquainted,” a feminine voice faded in beside the pair, relieving the tension Jahaan had created. Moia walked up to stand beside Bilrach with the friendliest smile her contorted face could manage. “Jahaan, why don’t I introduce you to everyone else while we await my master’s presence?”

“Sure,” Jahaan agreed, following Moia’s lead with a quick look over his shoulder at Bilrach, who seemed to be muttering something under his breath. To Moia, he asked, “Do you know Bilrach well?”

“I do,” Moia replied, solemnly. “He and I held hands as we walked into the rift together. But we were torn apart. I thought him lost. I found Zamorak, and he arrived on Freneskae.”

Stopping their walk across the chamber, Moia leaned down towards Jahaan to speak lowly, “Bilrach has sacrificed a lot in order to provide my master sanctuary. When I first found him, he was… unrecognisable. Now, he tells me the voices have subsided at the very least. I… I still fear for him.”

Not exactly sure what he was expected to say, Jahaan went with, “I’ll look out for him.”

This was the wrong answer; Moia shot him a glare that could melt mithril. “He doesn’t need you looking out for him.”

She stormed off across the chamber, sharply motioning for Jahaan to follow with a reluctant grunt of, “Come on.”


	3. Chaos of Corruption

The first man - well, man-ish - he was introduced to was Jerrod, a dark-skinned unkempt looking fellow from the lands of Canifis. Canifis had only one prominent export, and that was werewolves. Jerrod happened to be one of those. As soon as Jahaan had approached him, Jerrod began sniffing the air, the look of unsated bloodlust dancing in his red eyes.

“Von’t worry. I von’t eat associates,” through his thick accent, this was the most amount of reassurance Jahaan got from the werewolf, and decided to stay on the opposite end of the room to him as much as possible, especially since it was a full moon tonight.

Thankful to see another full-blooded human in the ranks, Jahaan felt most comfortable around the Lord of the Kinshra, Lord…

_ Oh blast, what was it again?  _ Jahaan cursed his memory.  _ Lord… Nefarious? No, that makes him sound like a pantomime villain. Precarious? No, just as bad… _

Jahaan silently prayed someone would say his name in the not too distant future so he could make a better mental note of it.

Lord Whatshisname was the youngest appointed leader of the Kinshra, the ‘Black Knights’ as they had come to be known. They were the force that has tried and failed on many occasions to conquer Falador in the name of Zamorak. Despite the Black Knights not having a very formidable reputation, their leader certainly looked like he could handle his sword. Decked out in striking black armour, trimmed with gold and crimson, with spikes on the shoulders and joints, Lord Whatshisname did not appear to offer fools gladly, a scowl permanently embedded in his scarred face.

“Don’t talk to me, human,” Zemouregal sized Jahaan up as soon as Moia brought him close enough, towering over him by an imposing foot and a half. He was standing beside an irritated looking Enakhra, who rolled her eyes as soon as Zemouregal opened his mouth. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Ah, I see you two have already met,” Moia remarked, smiling exasperatedly to Enakhra with an expression that read,  _ ‘I know, right?’ _

“Look, we have a common goal, and a common enemy in Sliske,” Jahaan’s teeth were so gritted he felt as if they were going to shatter. “Can we call a truce, for your master’s sake?”

“He’s not my ‘master’,” Zemouregal sneered. “I’m ruled by no-one.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Zemouregal slashed forwards, the armour on his stomach smashing into Jahaan’s chest, knocking the man back a pace, but he quickly recovered ground. “Watch your tone with me, rodent,” he threatened, not even trying to mask the intent behind his words. “Zamorak may have business with you, but not me. You step one foot out of line and I’ll sever that tiny head from your shoulders, peel the skin like a grape and crush your skull in my fist.”

Jahaan did not think it was wise to point out that, after his head was severed, Zemouregal could play kickball with it and he wouldn’t care - he’d be dead, after all - but the angry Mahjarrat had definitely made his point. It’d be foolhardy to pick a fight with him; the room was full of Zamorakians who probably preferred a lukewarm glass of water over Jahaan.

Moia quickly ushered Jahaan away, and Enakhra worked to distract an angry Zemouregal.

The two kept their distance after that.

At least Hazeel seemed friendlier. Well, in comparison, a starving rottweiler is friendlier than Zemouregal. Jahaan had met Khazard at the Ritual of Rejuvenation, and their encounter was still fresh in the minds of both beings. From the glare Khazard was bearing down on him, Jahaan knew it’d be up to him to try and smooth things out.

One Mahjarrat enemy in the ranks was enough.

After nodding in greeting to Hazeel, Jahaan turned to Khazard and awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “Listen, I’m… I’m sorry about your dog.”

“His name was Bouncer,” Khazard stated. He looked a little startled by the apology, but he hid it well under a veil of resentment.

“Yes, I’m sorry about Bouncer,” Jahaan continued. “It all got pretty heated. I just… I love dogs, too. I wish he didn’t have to get hurt.”

“Do you have a dog?”

“Not anymore, but I kinda have a pet troll.”

Khazard seemed amused, his sorrow lifting slightly. “You have a pet troll?”

“Yeah, a baby troll. His name’s Coal,” relieved to find some common ground, Jahaan felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “I helped rescue him from Burthorpe.”

Khazard appeared to smile back. It was a strange sight to see. “What’s your name?”

Extending a hand to shake, Jahaan replied, “Jahaan. I know who both of you are. Your reputation precedes you.”

After having his dominant hand nearly crushed into pieces by the Mahjarrat grip, Jahaan regretted the act of courtesy. To Hazeel, he asked, “How did you get out of your coma?”

“Coma?” Hazeel fumbled the foreign word on his tongue. “If you mean the state of sleep those cowards put me in, I have Zamorak himself to thank for my liberation. He awoke me upon his return. After all, I am like a brother to him.”

“You missed a few Rituals though,” Jahaan winced, his eyes boring into the hollow sockets of Hazeel’s skull. “How do you feel?”

“I… am weakened, it is true,” Hazeel regretfully informed. “My life force is critical. I shall not be able to accompany you on whatever mission Zamorak has planned for us today. Once the next Ritual of Rejuvenation is complete, finally I will retake what is rightfully mine.”

“Ardougne?” Jahaan hazarded a guess.

“Precisely. I will reclaim that which was taken from me, just as Zamorak intends to reclaim the Stone of Jas.”

Khazard put a gloved hand on Hazeel’s thin shoulder. “There was a time when between us we controlled all of southern Kandarin. Our reign was glorious. With the combined might of our forces, we will crush them like ants under foot.”

Smiling with an empty jaw, Hazeel replied, “It has been too long, Khazard.”

“You taught me how to conquer. Now it is my turn to help you.”

Despite feeling like he’d awkwardly stumbled into a nice little bonding moment between the two Mahjarrat, Jahaan tried his luck with the Zaros question once again. Thankfully, Hazeel’s response was much more measured.

“Zaros was unfit to rule,” Hazeel declared. “We never spoke with him, or saw him in public. He only ever conferred with that pious Azzanadra. Zamorak spoke the truth, that the Empire was stagnating, the priesthood - headed by Azzanadra - was corrupt, and that we had to take back control.”

“And you, Khazard?” Jahaan inquired.

“I was born into the Zamorakian forces,” Khazard replied. “I am the youngest of my brothers, born on Gielinor during the God Wars. My mother, Palkeera, died during the Battle of Uzer, shortly after my birth.”

“And your father?”

Shrugging, Khazard attempted to look nonchalant, but his eyes darkened slightly. “No doubt he perished too.”

The last person Jahaan was ‘reintroduced’ to was Nomad, a Soul Mage that Jahaan had the  _ pleasure  _ of encountering once before, and it was NOT a pleasant experience. He was undying, a man that had cheated Death numerous times and had somehow grown in power after every defeat. Nomad was known to be an apprentice of the late Lucien, before obtaining enough power and battle prowess to challenge his former master.

Nomad’s large bald head had blue veins appearing through the thin skin, drawing patterns like a trail map. His stance was perplexing, too; he was crouched down like he was about to break into a sprint any second, with an arm bent to guard his scarf-covered mouth. His jagged staff was held behind him, traces of blue energy emitting from the point. He was quite a bulky gentleman, with armour blending in among his robes, the combination providing decent magical and melee protection.

Though Nomad was still technically a human, his obsession with souls and magic had corrupted him over the years, making him something more and, simultaneously, something less than a mere man.

Oddly, Jahaan found himself sympathising, if only somewhat. After the power Guthix had bestowed upon him, making him the World Guardian, Jahaan no longer felt like a mere mortal anymore. Perhaps it was narcissism? Perhaps it was naivety? Whatever it was, it was a feeling Jahaan couldn’t shift…

It wasn’t long before Zamorak graced the chamber with his presence, teleporting in just in front of the throne; the Mahjarrat only bowed their heads in respect, while the others took to their knees. Jahaan remained standing.

“Arise, my disciples of chaos,” Zamorak began, motioning for them to stand. He stepped forward from the throne and settled between Moia and Bilrach. “Good to see you all again. Now, I’ll get right to it. If you don’t already know, we’re going to steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske. I’m not playing his stupid games any longer - just like I taught you, we’re going to take what is ours through strength and chaos!”

The cheers were interrupted by Moia who declared, “My lord, apologies for the disruption, but Viggora has returned. I can sense him.”

Smirking, Zamorak replied, “Perfect timing. Khazard, I need you to enter the Shadow Realm and get Viggora.”

“As you command,” Khazard nodded, stepping forward to gain some ground. He concentrated hard, his eyes closed and fists clenching, but… nothing. Bafflement turned into panic as he failed once more to disappear into the shadows. Darting his eyes towards Hazeel, he exclaimed, “I can’t enter the Shadow Realm!”

Puzzled, Hazeel calmly stepped beside him and tried the same motions, but to no avail. Gravely, he turned to Zamorak and declared, “My lord, I fear Sliske has been meddling with our ability to enter the Shadow Realm. I had sensed something afoul. I believe he has corrupted the boundary. I do not know how this is possible, but it is the only explanation.”

Sighing, Zamorak said, “It’s okay. Only that bastard Zarosian is a better manipulator of the shadows than you two. The failure is not on your shoulders - it’s just another reason to strip his power away. Can you at least create a window into the Shadow realm so that we can see Viggora, even if you can’t enter yourself?”

“I’ll try, my lord,” Khazard responded. With a few motions of his hand, and a slight strain on his part, a large enough window into the darkened mists of the Shadow Realm was created and a figure emerged on the other side. He was bald, but sported a radical two-pronged beard and a bulky suit of steel armour, trimmed in black. There was also the small matter of him being translucent.

When he saw Zamorak, he knelt.  _ “WoOoooooOOoo.” _

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan looked around him in bafflement, wondering,  _ Did… did anyone else hear that? _

“So it’s true,” Zemouregal stepped forward, a slash of a grin on his face. “Viggora, I’d heard you lost your mind, doomed to wander the Shadow Realm for all eternity.”

Moia quickly realised that Jahaan did not speak ‘ghost’, and lacking a spare ghostspeak amulet that the other non-Mahjarrat had thought to bring with them, acted as his translator.

“Zamorak's return broke the curse that was laid upon me,” Viggora stated. “I may be confined to this realm, but my mind is my own, at last.”

Zamorak had warmth in his expression that Jahaan had only witnessed fleetingly before. “I think back to that night on which we marched upon Zaros. It was beyond living memory that this many of us stood together. Rise, Viggora. What information do you bring?”

“My search took me deep into the swamps of Morytania, to the Barrows where Sliske's undead servants rest. There I discovered his lair, my lord. A stones throw to the south.”

“More. What more did you find?”

“I passed deeper into the lair, past tricks and contraptions. It was at the heart that I found it.”

“The Stone is there?” Zamorak’s eyes grew hungry.

Viggora confirmed, “Yes, Legatus Maximus Zamorak. In a cavernous vault behind a bolstered door. In the Shadow Realm he hides it.”

“You’re one of my most exalted followers, Viggora,” Zamorak commended, “If I could give you back your life, I would.”

Bowing slightly, Viggora stated, “It is my duty. I am forever in your service.”

Enakhra asked, “What else can you tell us about the defences?”

“On your way to the vault you will find several rooms, trapped and guarded,” Viggora explained, “The door preventing entry to the vault will be particularly problematic - an intricate system of rune locks and trickery. Inside, I could see the Stone of Jas. That is all I know.”

Nodding to his ally, Zamorak said, “Thank you, Viggora. That will be all.”

“Good luck to you all. Through chaos, victory is in your hands.”

With that, Viggora disappeared, and Khazard let the window to the Shadow Realm drop, visibly relieved at being allowed to relax his hold.

Zemouregal stepped into the centre of the circle that had formed, barking, “Let us strike now! We have the Stone's location - we must storm Sliske's lair by force!”

“Predictable,” Enakhra muttered. “No, we must plan. This opportunity cannot be squandered.”

“Enakhra is right,” Zamorak agreed. “Sliske will be able to teleport the Stone away. He must not be alerted.”

Lord… something or other… added, “If I may speak, it would seem our best option is a stealthy approach.”

“Leave it to me,” Nomad boasted, “The guards will pose no threat. I'll be back with the Stone before sundown.”

“Ha! A likely story,” Zemouregal snapped back. “No, I’m best suited for this mission. Sliske won’t even know what-”

“Quiet!” Zamorak cut in abruptly. “You will ALL be needed for this mission. Here’s what’s gonna happen: the World Guardian is resistant to divine power, so if that smug bastard really has become a god, he can’t hurt Jahaan. Jerrod’s an agile guy, he can stealthily take out the guards in the outer chambers. Moia’s got a unique memory infiltrating ability; they won’t be able to defend against something like that. Daquarius, you’re a smart guy, you’ll be good at breaking the rune locks on the vault door. Enakhra and Nomad, your mastery of magic is going to be our tank power against whatever Sliske throws at you. Khazard, despite Sliske having handicapped your ability to enter the Shadow Realm, you can still open windows, which is damn important - that’s where he’s got the Stone, after all. Zemouregal, you’re a necromancer even more capable than Sliske, so show his undead hordes no mercy. And Bilrach, you’re gonna lead this group.”

“It would be my honour,” Bilrach bowed lowly, ignoring the side-eye Zemouregal was giving him.

“I will remain with Zamorak,” Hazeel stated. “In my weakened state, I will be more of a hindrance than a help. Once you reach the Stone, Khazard has a communication device that will be able to alert me, and I will inform Lord Zamorak who will be able to retrieve the Stone from the Shadow Realm.”

“But if Khazard can’t get into the Shadow Realm, what makes you think you’ll be able to?” Jahaan asked Zamorak.

However, the reply instead came from Zemouregal who barked, “You dare question our lord’s power?!”

Holding an easing hand out to Zemouregal, Zamorak broke into a sinister sneer and assured, “If we can’t get the Stone out ourselves, we’ll just have to  _ make _ Sliske get it out for us. You understand?”

Gulping, Jahaan did.

Bilrach added, “I must remind you all, do not underestimate Sliske. I have sensed his power growing rapidly for some time now. He seems to flit in and out of my reach. In and out of focus. He knows I can sense him. Curious, yes. The Shadow Realm, perhaps.”

Resting his hands on the hilts of his swords, Jahaan cautioned, “I've dealt with Sliske before. Despite his demeanour, he’s not to be taken lightly.”

“Wise words. Another reason why you were chosen,” Zamorak replied. “The snake has taken a vested interest in you. Though if everything goes to plan, the filthy Zarosian won’t have time to react.”

General Khazard hesitantly ventured, “What… what if the plan goes wrong?”

Zamorak’s confidence helped to assuage his doubts. “Then it will be chaos, and you will be in your element. Embrace it and realise your true potential. Now, move out. Head to Morytania and meet up at Sliske’s hideout. Let’s stick it to that daft bastard once and for all.”


	4. The Heist

Morytania. The cruelest and most unforgiving kingdom in all of Gielinor. Sure, you had the lawlessness of the Wilderness, but that was mere anarchy - bandits and small groups of various races and creeds carving out a little piece of something to call their own, no matter how corrupt it was. Morytania was organised chaos, apt as it was the only Zamorakian kingdom left in the world. Morytania was a land of darkness and evil, inhabited by various creatures secluded in the region, scarcely seen outside of the kingdom’s clouds. Such species include the vampyric race, werewolves, ghosts of unruly souls, ghasts and more. While some humans still remained, most of them were helpless under the tyranny of the vampyres.

During the Second Age, the northern and western areas of Morytania belonged to Zaros, while the southern parts belonged to Saradomin and were known as the ‘Hallowland’. Once Zaros was deposed by Zamorak, the new diety gave Lord Lowerniel Vergidiyad Drakan, a vampyre lord who followed Zamorak during the God Wars, permission to conquer Hallowland as a reward for his hand in the rebellion. It wasn’t long before Draken seized Hallowland for himself and renamed the city as ‘Meiyerditch’. The citizens were held in the city so that Drakan's vampyres could drink their blood as ‘tithes’. And so, Hallowvale turned into a blood-farming ghetto, the sky permanently darkened so that vampyres were no longer hampered by the sun. The death that Drakan brought destroyed the lands of Morytania. He turned fields into swamps, and any that died in their murky depths became undead known as ghasts. Lush forests were transformed into dead clusters of trees. Since its taking, Meiyerditch has been changed into an unrecognisable public squalor. The city is entirely isolated by massive walls on its north, east, and west side, and the south-eastern sea at its southern end effectively boxes the city in. To say that the conditions within Meiyerditch are terrible is an understatement. The city is overcrowded, with humans herded into small wooden apartments that have long since lost walls and roofs to the rot. Food is rare, and many are forced to eat rats to survive. Clothing and other basic necessities are also in short supply. All throughout the city, dying citizens can be seen huddled against walls and in the dark confines of alleys. The ghetto is divided into six sectors, each of which has a number of residents barricaded within. The inhabitants of these sectors pay forced blood tithes on a rotational basis, so as to prevent the large majority from dying of blood loss. Despite this ‘measure’, many citizens do not survive the tithes.

This is only a portion of the kingdom: Mort Myre Swamp lies in western Morytania, plagued by ghasts. It was once a beautiful forest by the name of Humblethorn, but was turned into a swampland once the evil denizens of Morytania descended. The Haunted Woods is a long-dead forest, the remnants of a once luscious and tranquil forest that spread across Morytania. However, when the vampyres arrived, the whole land began to decay and rot. Then there was Mort'ton, a village situated in Morytania, south of the Mort Myre Swamp. The town was once famed for its funeral pyres, though now it is populated by afflicted, strange zombie-like creatures that are the result of a disease which spread through the town some time in the Fifth Age, infecting the population. Nowadays, Mort'ton lies in ruins and, though the Sanguinesti Affliction is no longer contagious and does not present a threat to visitors, the afflicted citizens of the town still wander the streets, and derelict buildings and streets are prowled by shades of long-dead spirits, making the place even more hostile. Directly to the south was the ramshackle town known as ‘Burgh de Rott’ that served as the base for the Myreque rebels who fight to reclaim Morytania from the vampyres.

In the late Third Age, an army of Saradominist soldiers from Misthalin, led by six brothers - Ahrim, Dharok, Guthan, Karil, Torag and Verac - attempted to eradicate the evil creatures of Morytania. These commanders had been given extremely powerful sets of armour and weapons by a mysterious stranger, a follower of Zaros, and led their army with valour through the gloomy swamps of Morytania. Saradominist forces pressed from Paterdomus on the River Salve, all through Mort Myre Swamp, to the walls of Darkmeyer itself, the capital of the Sanguinesti region and the twin city of Meiyerditch. Darkmeyer was Drakan’s residence at the time. Here the brothers made a heroic but bloody and catastrophic stand against Drakan's forces, slaying many. However, as they did, the mysterious stranger that had blessed them before their campaign arrived and told them that they must die, and when they fought with Drakan once again, their powers were greatly diminished. They received horrific wounds and many of their soldiers were killed. The troops were forced to retreat back to their camp. The army tried to treat the brothers' injuries, but their wounds proved fatal, and they all succumbed to their injuries. The soldiers were distraught; they knew that without their commanders, their campaign would end in failure. So, pausing only to bury their dead generals in six barrows, they turned back and fled to their beloved Misthalin.

It was here the Barrows Brothers were laid to rest, but they did not rest in peace, becoming the property of their new master and serving as his undead soldiers.

A stone’s throw to the south of the Barrows’ graves was Sliske’s lair.

Without the aid of Moia’s teleportation, Jahaan doubt he would have made it on his own. At least, not for a year of so, and likely missing some limbs along the way. It seems as if everyone else had the same idea, arriving in flurries of magic one after the other.

When Jahaan landed, he instantly wretched, the sudden onslaught of decay and rot assaulting his senses, the smell unbearable. He’d landed in sodden mud that coated him up to the ankle, scrambling to free himself before he sunk any further.

_ Welcome to Morytania, _ he grumbled internally, shaking off a few flakes of mud which accidentally splattered onto the back of Zemouregal’s armour. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice.

The assembled group quietly trekked through a tiny portion of the swamp until they arrived at the entrance Viggora had described. Prising open the hatch, Bilrach climbed down first to scout out the area, waving the all-clear after a few moments of scanning. However, when they all made it down, their hearts collectively sank.

The tunnel was lit, torches protruding from the rocky walls, and on a plinth in front of them was a small handwritten note. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a poem, reading:

_ ‘A Poem for the Lost’ _

_ Think no more of the bright, blue skies above _

_ You can barely see five fingers raised in the dark _

_ The green grasses you ran through as a child are gone _

_ No longer surrounded on three sides by earth, wind and sea _

_ Does your red blood even flow or heart beat anymore? _

_ North, east, south and west are all the same _

_ Only light and dark combined can guide you now _

Using a small spark of fire magic, Moia burned the note, announcing what everyone was thinking, “He’s been waiting for us.”

Instantly, Zemouregal snapped around to Jahaan and cornered him against one of the walls, growling, “Did you say something to that snake,  _ World Guardian? _ ” he spat the title as if it were a curse. “You were so chummy with Sliske and his Zarosian pals at the Ritual, after all.”

Jahaan glowered up at Zemouregal, not letting the size difference put him off as he argued, “Hey, Sliske’s no friend of mine. Don’t you start throwing around bullshit claims you can’t back up, or we’re going to have a problem.”

Roaring a chilling laugh, Zemouregal smashed a fist into the rocks behind Jahaan’s head, breaking of chunks as he did so. “Is that a promise, or a threat?”

“Besides, Sliske can sense the Mahjarrat,” Jahaan defiantly countered, making a good show of not being fazed by the towering figure looming over him. “He probably tracked your movements!”

“We’ve been here for mere minutes,” Zemouregal snapped back. “How could he-”

“ENOUGH!” Enakhra shrieked, the flames in the torches flickering with cowardice as she did so. “It doesn’t matter how he knew - all that matters is that he  _ does _ . Zamorak’s plan of stealth is null and void now. We have to charge through and make sure we get to Sliske before he disappears with the Stone again.”

“Enakhra’s right,” Bilrach concurred. “Stealth would have been ideal, but we can’t waste anymore time. He’s waiting for us, that means he wants an encounter.”

“So we need to go,  _ now _ ,” Moia finished, leading the way down the tunnel. Her momentum didn’t last long before she was surrounded by cave openings on all sides, clueless as to where to go first. Above each one was a coloured paint stroke.

“Vich way?” Jerrod sniffed at the openings, trying and failing to catch a scent.

“Oh blast, does anyone remember the poem?” Lord Daquarius asked, realising, “I think Sliske left us clues on that note.”

Looking guilty, Moia didn’t answer. After cursing an unfamiliar word, Khazard snapped, “Useless halfbreed! We needed that!”

“Well how was I supposed to know!” Moia whirled around. “And don’t you DARE call me-”

“Blue skies!” Jahaan loudly cut in, silencing the quarrel. Once everyone was listening, he quietly repeated, “The poem mentioned blue skies. Look for something blue.”

In moments, the group had found the blue paint stroke above one of the doors and quickly proceeded into the next tunnel.

“Five fingers,” Jahaan stated the next clue he remembered, unsure as to how he could remember such a poorly written poem over the name of Lord-

_ ...fuck. Nevermind, the poem is more important. _

Pointing to a ‘V’ over one of the doors, Bilrach announced, “The Infernal symbol for five. This way.”

They continued on like this, making light work of the rest of the tunnel system until they reached one last corridor leading to a large expanse. Upon brief inspection, it was a crudely constructed maze with wight guards patrolling at every turn.

After peering out from their safe spot to survey the best route, Moia declared, “We’ll have to sneak past them. If we alert them to our presence, more might arrive.”

“We can handle whatever comes our way,” Khazard declared, drawing his mighty longsword, the blade glinting in the low torchlight.

His ears pricked to the never-ending footsteps of the marching wights, Bilrach countered, “We might get overrun. Who knows how many he can spawn? If we falter this early on, all this effort was for nothing.”

Nomad stepped forward. “Leave it to me - these wights are no match for my prowess. I’ll deliver the Stone to Zamorak with ease.”

Sliding in front of him, Zemouregal sneered, “Nice try, mage, but I wouldn’t trust you to deliver a letter. You’re not leaving my sight.”

“Oh, and you think you have the power to stop me?” Nomad challenged, jeeringly. “How droll.”

“When this is over, I’m going to deliver you to Death in parcels.”

“Gentleman, please!” Lord Daquarius interrupted, the vain in his forehead bulging. “This is getting old. Let us but aside our petty differences and take down these wights together. We must not fail Lord Zamorak.”

Wordlessly striding past Lord Daquarius with a self-righteous grin carved into his ashen face, Zemouregal summoned a bolt of smoke magic and blasted the closest wight to pieces before anyone could stop him. Instantly, five more rounded the corner, their green glowing eyes lighting up the end of the hall.

“There. No more debating. You’re welcome.”

From the sounds of the incoming footsteps, more wights were arriving.

Summoning fire to her palms, Enakhra growled, “Zemouregal? You’re an asshole.”

From the looks of the scenery Jahaan passed as he slashed through the horde of wights, Sliske had clearly devised some elaborate stealth-based mazed, complete with glowing masks to avoid, patrolling wights to assassinate, and levers to toggle certain doorways and passages.

The Zamorakians had botched all of that, charging through with the subtlety and grace of a fox in a hen house.

Fortunately, they didn’t get overrun by Sliske’s wights. In fact, the danger they presented was more to one another, accidentally tripping over each other’s robes in such a narrow corridor, or sending a spell that shot past an ally a little too close for comfort, or straight up just running into one another as they barged through the wights.

_ Yes, Zamorak would be pleased... _

When the group made it past the wight guards and into the next room, they weren’t thankful for what greeted them; a narrow bridge, crowding them all together once more, that approached a large set of doors. A basic representation of Sliske’s face was painted upon them.  _ Not egocentric at all… _

Embedded onto either side of the doors were two wooden masks; one, the picture of glee and mania. The other, morose and miserable. Enchanted, the pair of them - magical energy radiated from their carvings, and it allowed them the power of speech.

“Welcome, welcome! It’s so nice to have guests!” the joyous one cheered, the positivity positively sickening.

The dirgeful mask seemed to concur that his partner was annoyingly over the top, remarking, “Must you be so incessantly cheery all the time, Light?”

“Oh come now, Shadow, we hardly have visitors,” Light tried to reason, its joyful energy never wavering. It’s voice was an over-enthusiastic replica of Sliske’s own, with the dial turned up to eleven. “Besides, they’ve made it this far. They’ve come to play our little game! Won’t that be fun?”

“No. It won’t be,” Shadow grumbled. Like its mania-induced counterpart, this mask, too, spoke with Sliske’s accent and intonation. However, unlike its opposite - and indeed unlike Sliske himself - this mask’s voice sounded earnest, genuine, not a parody of emotion. “I suppose the sooner they leave, the sooner I can sleep and be rid of you. Fine, fine. Get on with it.”

The elation (and subsequent irritation) of Light managed to increase tenfold. “Fantastic! Now, this game is rather simple, once you get the hang of it. There’s shadow and light energy gauges on this here door, and two of you must keep them balanced at all times. Thing is, the energy beams are in the Shadow Realm, so a couple of you more skilled fellows will have to open up a window into it for the others to connect themselves to the streams. A few delicate wights are lurking around with knowledge of how to crack the door’s code, so stealing their memories will make unlocking the door a doddle. Ah, but there are a few troublesome souls waiting in the wings to overrun you all, so you best delegate a couple of agents to defend against them. Careful, too much light or shadow energy will cause a bit of an explosion, and I’m not quite sure any of you would survive, which would be such a shame.”

Shadow sighed with the world-weariness of a broken down furnace. “Just steal the memories of the wights, balance the energies, unlock the door, try not to die. You don’t need all that nonsense, Light. Just get to it.”

Light sighed himself this time, but his had the hint of a chuckle. “You really are no fun, are you old chap? Nevermind. It’s time for these fellows to get cracking! Best of luck, you chaotic little so-and-so’s!”

The team quickly got to work after the masks grew silent. Jerrod would sniff out an undead guard and bring him to Moia for his memories to be read. Meanwhile, Nomad and Enakhra kept the shadow and light energy streams balanced, respectively, as Bilrach and Khazard used their prowess with the Shadow Realm to keep windows into it open. Zemouregal fought to defend the room from the undead hoard that tried to break through. When the wights ended up encroaching from all angles, Jahaan and Lord Daquarius ended up fighting them off too.

Low moaning echoed from the wight Jahaan tangled with. Once it was dead for good this time, he called out, “How’s everyone doing?”

Looking around, he saw Enakhra and Nomad straining under the pressure of the energy beams, trying to keep them in balance.

“We need more light energy!” Nomad called out, and he would get a brief moment of respite to relax while Enakhra all but crumbled under the increased pressure.

Fighting under the weight, Enakhra shouted, “Moia, how much longer?”

With her hands on a prayer-like motion, Moia channeled her focus into the wight Jerrod had brought before her as it struggled under the werewolf’s grasp. “Soon. I have three of the four runic symbols required.”

This wasn’t reassuring enough for Enakhra who, unfortunately, crumbled under the weight of the beam, crying out as the energy engulfed her. Hearing this, Zemouregal shot around and charged towards Enakhra, throwing her out the way as he took the weight of the light beam himself. While Enakhra struggled to catch her breath, panting and choking from the pain, Zemouregal kept up his end of the beam long enough to rectify the damage his female Mahjarrat comrade had unintentionally inflicted upon the energy metre. Soon enough, it was Nomad’s turn to bear the pressure, but luckily, he managed it well. Still, this little switch-out had left Zemouregal's corner undefended. As there seemed to be less monsters coming into his section, Jahaan pulled double duty, running across the chamber to dispatch the conga-line of wights that had piled up in such a short amount of time. Eventually, Enakhra was recovered enough to defend against the wights, but she did not volunteer to retake the beam from Zemouregal. Naturally, she didn’t even say thank you.

“It’s done!” Moia exclaimed, backing away from the guard she was harvesting a memory from and sprinting over to the door, quickly inputting the combination. As soon as the last symbol was twisted towards, the assault of the undead hoards ceased, as did the light and shadow beams.

After a series of clinking metallic sounds from inside the door’s mechanism, it swung wide open.

Inside, straight ahead, a platform, built for the Stone of Jas.

But there was no Stone of that platform.

There was only Sliske.


	5. Wrath and Ruin

Moia’s eyes narrowed as she locked onto Sliske’s glittering yellow irises. “Sliske…”

With a dramatic flourish, Sliske flamboyantly gestured around him. “Welcome! How nice to finally have some visitors. Hope you like what I've done with the place. The statues are truly inspired artwork, I think. I recommend having a-”

“Enough of this prattle!” Zemouregal cut in, summoning smoke to his fingertips with malicious intent. “I say we eliminate this vermin before he has the chance to scurry away!”

Hopping backwards, Sliske held his palms outwards and said, “Ah-ah-ah! How rude of me, I almost forgot to introduce you...”

Shivering slightly, Khazard took a tentative step backwards. “Bilrach... do you sense that?”

“Yes, Khazard, I sense it too,” Bilrach’s fists were clenched, his voice low and eyes darting around him. “Be on your guard.”

Sliske’s smile grew wicked now. “I think it's time for you to meet the other guests.”

From a cloud of smoke, Sliske revealed his latest creations: shadow replicas, clones of the present Zamorakians that nested comfortably in the uncanny valley. They wore the same armour as their counterparts, had the same weapons, but they still seemed…  _ off _ . Perhaps the sinister air surrounding them was just something that had brushed off from their creator.

“Nomad, meet Nomad!,” Sliske proudly introduced, watching the expressions of confusion and horror from the Zamorakians with twisted glee. “Daquarius, meet Daquarius! Jerrod- well, you get the picture.”

“So this is the result of your twisted experiments in the Shadow Realm,” Bilrach regarded the shadow apparition of himself without amusement.

“What have you done, Sliske?” Khazard demanded, his hand clenched around his sword hilt. The shadow figure of him mimicked the action. “Playing god like this is dangerous - even for you!”

Sliske sneered, “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were scared, Khazard.”

“No!” Khazard barked, too sharply, and it betrayed him. “Surely they are nothing but apparitions, constructs of shadow…”

“Indeed,” Nomad concurred, his resolve more certain. “A nice trick, but nothing more, conjurer.”

“Oh, but they are so much more! You will find them to be quite formidable opponents.”

Jahaan scanned the ranks once, then twice, and noticed an absence. His tone was slightly wary as he inquired, “So where's my one?”

The smirk Sliske gave him made Jahaan wish he had never asked. “Such impatience! Just you wait, I still have an ace up my sleeve for you...”

“We have heard enough of your empty words,” Moia summoned a ball of flames to her palms. “Disciples of chaos, ready yourselves!”

With that, the Zamorakians drew their weapons and readied their spells; their opposites did the same.

Unsurprisingly, Zemouregal was the one to make the first move, blasting Nomad’s double with a bolt of shadow magic. “Ha! Been waiting to do that for a long time.”

Taking it personally, Nomad squared off with Zemouregal’s clone, while the others paired off with their counterparts in a flurry of combat.

Jahaan was about to get stuck into the action too when he felt a force tug him backwards. From the instant chill, he realised he’d been dragged into the Shadow Realm again, the dark tinge his vision he’d acquired confirming this.

He wasn’t alone. This he knew. He could sense a presence. Nay, multiple presences. Those not quite living, not quite dead. These weren’t Sliske, but he was here too, his looming spirit omniscient.

Right in the centre of the room, a platform, holding the Stone of Jas atop it.

Sliske's voice echoed around the cavernous vault.  _ “Welcome to the carnival, Jahaan! It’s been too long, my dear. Now, it’s time for the main act to begin...” _

Suddenly, a figure materialised and charged at him, holding two blades akin to his own. Instinctively, Jahaan swung for the apparition, only for it to disappear in a cloud of smoke. Confused, Jahaan held the grip of his swords steady, shuffling backwards. 

It was a whisper of a sound, a ghost of a noise, but there was someone behind him. Slashing around in the area his ears had tweaked, his blades greeted nothing.

Just as he was about to grumble out his frustrations, another figure appeared at his six o’clock. Jahaan rolled out of the way of the crushing sword blow, whipping around with his two blades, expecting not to meet the attacker. But this time, he did. His swords clashed with two blades, similar to his own, but radiating smoke. The opponent holding them was himself. Or, rather, a slightly more contorted version of himself. Pupilless eyes, slightly crooked limbs, like a puppet being held on a loose string. The likeness was revolting, for Jahaan felt like he was looking into the zombified version of himself, entranced and helpless to Sliske’s command.

It also had a hauntingly familiar smile carved into its overly pale face.

_ “Do you like him?” _ Sliske’s voice was laced with a malicious chuckle.  _ “It’s such a shame you scarred that pretty face of yours, you know. Such a waste.” _

Despite being faced with… himself… Jahaan found that he was on the defensive more often than not, and that every strike he made was countered perfectly. Knowing he was fighting an uphill battle, Jahaan said to himself,  _ This is just a game to Sliske, like everything is. I’ve gotta focus on getting the Stone back into the material realm... _

As he sparred, Jahaan edged backwards, closer and closer to the Stone. A blade swung for his neck, but Jahaan ducked in time, managing to use one of his blades to swipe at his opponents shins. Despite being a shadow construct, the counterpart took the hit like he was flesh and blood, and Jahaan capitalised with a slash across the chest with his other blade, only cringing ever so slightly at the sight of causing ‘himself’ such agony.

Not wasting a second, Jahaan dashed up to the Stone’s plinth, finally taking in the awe-inspiring power radiating from the immense artefact up close. It caused his skin to crawl as he felt the energy creep underneath his flesh and into his veins.

Despite guessing that it would be foolish to reach out and touch the godly weapon, Jahaan decided to reach out and touch the godly weapon.

Upon touching the Stone, Jahaan’s mind was cast back through time to witness a memory that was imprinted on the Stone of Jas many years ago, far back towards the end of the Third Age, and to a land once known as Forinthry…

The battlefield was solemn, a haunting wind crying out through the desolate grey sky. Mere minutes beforehand, the place was ablaze with the clashing of swords, the screams of battle, and the rattle of magic. Now, it was eerily quiet, save for the low groaning of the wounded and the unstable pulsing of energy emitting from the Stone of Jas.

Panting, Zamorak was huddled over on the ground, a hand defiantly (albeit desperately) sealed onto the Stone’s surface.

When he blinked through the grit in his eyes, he saw three figures looming over him, though keeping a comfortable distance.

Saradomin, Armadyl and Bandos, side by side.

“You are defeated, Zamorak,” Saradomin announced, barely keeping the smugness from his tone. “Give up the Stone.”

“Never,” Zamorak spat, unsurprised when blood spilt from his lips. “You betrayed me, you bastard! You threw away our alliance the moment your knife could find my back!”

With his words, the Stone’s surface quivered and cracked, energy pounding through it with more vehermence than ever before.

Seeing this, Armadyl pleaded with heavy eyes, “Please, Zamorak. Look at the Stone. Your desperation is causing it to become unstable!”

“Stop squawking, bird,” Bandos grunted, tightening his grip on his large warhammer. “Bandos has destroyed red man’s armies. Now, Bandos finish red man too!”

“There’s a peaceful way out of this for all of us, you barbarian,” Armadyl maintained, softening his tone when he returned his focus to Zamorak. “Please, Zamorak. It does not have to end like this...”

Saradomin’s eyes were on fire, burning holes through Zamorak’s skull. “You cannot reason with this mad dog, Armadyl. He and his forces are devoted to evil above all else.”

“Lies!” Zamorak rebuked, forcefully. “You do not understand… you have never even wanted to fucking TRY and understand! I have risen to power through my own strength and will, and that is how ALL can thrive! You… you little bitch, you’re wretched and weak, just like your pathetic excuse for an ideology. Order leads to stagnation, but chaos leads to innovation, empowerment, FREEDOM!”

Now, the Stone’s pulsing began to cause rifts in the world, quaking the earth surrounding them all, but Zamorak didn’t even seem to notice. Armadyl’s resolve, on the other hand, was about as unsteady as the ground beneath him. He looked over his shoulder to the aviansie army behind him, the fearsome warriors that had followed him from their home world on Abbinah in hopes of finding peace on Gielinor. He had lost a fair few good soldiers in the battle preceding this standoff, and he would weep for them all. However, many were still alive, and thus one thing was repeating inside his mind, clawing fiercely to escape.

“Zamorak, I beg of you - the Stone!” he implored with increased urgency. “You know not what you are doing. You could annihilate Forinthry and all innocent life within!”

“Do you see now?” Saradomin swept a grand gesture behind him. “This is what you truly stand for - the destruction of life. You are nothing but a villain.”

Coughing, Zamorak ignored the blue deities remarks and turned to the others. “Armadyl... Bandos... hear me. Everything I've done was for Gielinor. I seek only to raise up the people of this world.”

But Bandos just laughed. “Ha! The mighty Zamorak, begging on his knees. Pathetic.”

There was a glint in Armadyl’s eyes, however, that indicated he might be reasoned with. “Saradomin, does he speak the truth?”

Quickly, Saradomin dispelled this idea, eager to keep his allies on his side. “Lies, all of it. He is trying to manipulate you. We each allied to bring this wretched criminal to justice. The Stone is rightfully mine!”

This didn’t sit well with Bandos. “Yours? Looks like fair game to Bandos, old man.”

Latching onto this, Zamorak growled, “Saradomin, you only want to rule and control this world with your power, the same as Zaros before you. Stagnation and weakness is all that comes of it.”

“And you believe chaos to be the answer?” Saradomin rebuked. “Would you have this planet ravaged by a never-ending war?!”

“Conflict would be inevitable, yes, but the people of the world would be  _ free _ . Free to fall and grow, to fail and rebuild-”

“MADNESS!” Saradomin cut in, and by the looks on Armadyl’s on Bandos’ faces, Zamorak knew he had lost them all. Nevertheless, he persisted, “Surely you can see the value of my words, Bandos?”

“They are just words,” Bandos snarled. “Powerless and empty. In another time we might have seen eye-to-eye. You might have been allowed to fight for Bandos.”

Lastly, desperately, he turned to Armadyl. “Armadyl? Come on…”

His eyes wavered, and he looked away from the downed deity. In a regretful tone, Armadyl said, “I am sorry, Zamorak. I cannot allow chaos to engulf this world.”

Sneering with victory, Saradomin declared, “The time has come for you to meet your end, usurper.”

“NO! You are all blind!” Zamorak’s rage began to get the better of him, and the Stone crackled and pulsed in time with his temper, shaking the ground beneath as it started to glow brighter. “None of you are deserving of this power. None of you! If I must meet my end, THEN EACH OF YOU WILL MEET YOURS!”

Jahaan could no longer hear anything, and his vision began to get blurry. Armadyl reached out a hand, Bandos charged forwards, Saradomin raised his Staff, and Zamorak rose to his feet with the power of the elder gods infused into his heart. The world burst into light, and then receded just as quickly into darkness.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he realised that he and the Stone were back in the material realm. He was still attached to the Stone, and it required some fighting to break free from it. Once he did, he noticed how his entire body was tingling, similarly to how he felt with Zaros inside of him. This time though, the power was much stronger, dizzyingly so. He felt unstable, but at the same time, he felt  _ immortal _ .

Clenching his fist, he noted how energy was literally sparking from his knuckles. It was intoxicating, and it made him want to  _ fight _ . The nearest conduit for his adrenaline was the shadow copy of Enakhra; Jahaan didn't even draw his swords as he knew he had the power flowing inside him to channel a magic spell. What spell, though, he wasn’t sure - he had no runes, and Zaros only acted as a substitute for the ancient magicks.

Soon enough, he realised this little conundrum wasn’t going to be an issue as he shot a bolt of pure elder energy out of his palms, so powerful that the Enakhra shadow dissipated upon contact.

Startled, Enakhra spun around to see who had stolen her kill. Grey eyes sparkled with shock horror when they met Jahaan’s green ones, seeing the fire dancing inside them and the magic wrapping around his palm.

However, Jahaan realised that the attack had used up a lot of the power he’d taken from the Stone. Knowing the magic was fleeting, he thought to pick his next target more wisely. Zemouregal's shadow was long since dead, as was Nomad’s and Khazard’s. The aforementioned had spread themselves around to take out the remaining shadow’s of their comrades. Only Lord Daquarius fought alone, sparring with a mirror image of himself. Jahaan sprinted over, gathering the magic to his fingertips, but a lighter blast this time - overkill was not necessary. The amount definitely proved to be effective as Lord Daquarius’ shadow went down without a second thought.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bulky figure running towards the Stone. Clearly he wasn’t the only one to see it as a female voice called out, “Nomad, stop!”

Instinctively, Jahaan whipped around and fired a bolt of energy towards the charging Nomad. It caught his back and shoved him forwards, onto his knees.

“You dare stop me from realising my destiny?!” he bellowed, picking himself up and changing the grip on his spear so it was as if he was holding a javelin. “Only I am worthy of the Stone's power! Foolish human. I should have finished you long ago!”

Swiftly dodging to the side, Jahaan missed the spear’s deadly tip by a literal hair’s length - he felt it cut through his dreadlocks - and retaliated by slipping his dagger from the sheath at his back and launching it towards Nomad, slicing into the soul mage’s fingers.

Roaring in pain, Nomad clutched his left hand, watching helplessly as blood poured from where his index finger used to be. It’d been sliced clean off from just above the top joint, and his middle finger had also lost the tip. Seeing he was outnumbered and losing blood fast, Nomad caved and teleported away, a harsh curse thrown in Jahaan’s direction for good measure.

Once he left, another figure emerged, fading in under the glow of fire and shadow.

Zamorak had arrived.

He wordlessly nodded to his followers, then to Jahaan, before turning his attention to the Stone. Eyes full of hunger, he strode up, examining the glowing and crackling specimen for only a fleeting moment before he placed a grey claw upon its surface. Reeling back, Zamorak began to shake, his body convulsing as energy surged through his veins.

It was at that moment Sliske revealed himself once more. All the Zamorakians were so focused on the spectacle of Zamorak absorbing the Stone’s power that they didn’t notice the snake’s arrival, but Jahaan did. He didn’t have time to act, or even call out, before Sliske began to move, disappearing back into the shadows. His movements were quick, his appearances fleeting; he appeared in front Khazard first, thrust a palm into the Mahjarrat’s stomach and chest, and then vanished once more before reappearing in front of a new target. Whoever he touched was left paralysed, limbs frozen and stiff as a flurry of shadows engulfed them. Jahaan, however, had been spared, and could only watch in amazement and horror as Sliske effortlessly worked his way through the Zamorakians.

By the time Zamorak noticed, all his followers were incapacitated. Growling, Zamorak removed his hand from the Stone, staring daggers through Sliske when he manifested opposite him. The fury in the deity’s eyes could burn castles to the ground, yet Sliske seemed unphased, or at least that’s the facade he wore.

“So, the serpent finally rears its ugly head,” Zamorak spat, his fists clenched into tight balls as the elder energy flowed between his fingers.

“Ah, good ol' Zammy,” Sliske cheered in response. His smile dripped from his lips like acid. “It’s nice to see you again too.”

“Release my followers or you will leave here in a FUCKING BUCKET.”

Tutting, Sliske’s smile grew into a wicked grin. “Careful, I could disappear into the shadows with the Stone faster than you could say 'Saradomin'.”

Zamorak stance was proud, solid, immovable. “You better watch that tone of yours," he threatened with a hiss. "I'll rip your tongue out with my bare hands for all the shit it's caused."

Sliske’s stance, on the other hand, was hunched, casual, his hands wringing together incessantly. “Oh, come now, we have so much in common! There was a time when we stood side by side, many lifetimes ago.”

“We’re nothing alike,  _ Blasckum _ .”

At this, Sliske roared with laughter. “Such colourful language! Do be careful - there are humans present, after all. And to use such harsh words against one of your brothers!”

“We’re not brothers anymore,” Zamorak maintained, his voice cold and chilling.

“Oh but we were!” Sliske maintained, his voice cheery but his eyes emotionless. “Back in the good old days of the Zarosian Empire. Did we not work together then, Legatus? Until you stabbed Zaros in the back, that is.”

Sliske leaned in a little closer, his voice lower and more calculating as he revealed, “Tell me, Zammy - do you really think that the Praefectus Praetorio was unaware of your plot against the Empty Lord?”

Zamorak paused, hesitant, carefully trying to read Sliske. “...bullshit.”

This elicited a grin from Sliske. “Why would I lie about this? The old society was oh so boring. Everyone being watched, afraid to put a foot out of line. Your development of this 'chaos' ideology was a breath of fresh air. Honourable intentions certainly, but it was the results that had me intrigued.”

“Chaos is not a game where you can pull the strings,” Zamorak asserted. “Only an arrogant Zarosian would believe they could play puppet master.”

“Yes, I suppose that is where we differ,” Sliske sighed. “But ask yourself, do the motivations really matter when the goal is the same?”

“You're no ally of mine, you damn snake. Fuck off back to the shadows where you came from. The Stone belongs to me now.”

Erupting with cackling laughter, Sliske countered, “Ally? Oh Zammy dear, I fear I have misled you. You know better than to think me so… unambitious. You may have reached the Stone, yes. It was truly amusing to watch your minions play my games. But to believe it is in your possession? Well…”

“I’ve already drawn power from it, regardless of your empty words,” Zamorak replied. “Even now my energy increases. It’s about time I finally shut you up for good.”

“Ah yes, you can feel the energy coursing through your veins. You are addicted, just like Saradomin is, just like Lucien was,” Sliske raised his eyebrows, his tone lighter as he finished, “And now I am too.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan had been silent thus far, watching the events unfold with baited breath, but finally he piped up, “What do you mean ‘addicted’?”

Sliske turned slightly towards Jahaan, keeping one beady yellow iris on Zamorak at all times. “Can't you see? Everyone who has ever touched the Stone has sacrificed everything in order to keep it in their grasp. The energy withheld in the Stone is not from this world, and the feeling of absorbing it is incomparable. I am not so clouded by pride that I would deceive myself.”

“You speak only of your own addiction,” Zamorak declared, “The Stone is nothing but a tool, a necessity if I am to free this world from the other gods.”

“Fool yourself all you like, Zamorak,” Sliske’s wicked, all-knowing smirk was back. “I know the truth.”

Considering this, Jahaan evaluated the feeling he had when he touched the Stone, and easily could see how one would become addicted to such an immense feeling of power. Then again, he already felt the power depleting oh-so quickly, and with it, his lust for the Stone did not remain. Hesitantly, he asked, “What about me? I touched the Stone after all.”

“Hmm… It would seem being the World Guardian is a double-edged sword,” Sliske replied. “You may not be harmed by the gods, but you are also unable to absorb divine energy. Good old Guthix gave you a blessing - and a curse. You do seem to be quite handy at channeling the Stone's power temporarily, though. Addiction may not be your downfall, no, but power so often corrupts the heart and mind.”

“Enough of this chatter,” Zamorak hissed, a small storm brewing around his palms. “You’re done here, Sliske. And I mean for good.”

Finally, Sliske’s calm demeanour dropped, and he looked slightly worried now. Jahaan could have sworn he saw the Mahjarrat gulp. From the corner of his eyes, Sliske locked his glare onto Jahaan, his tone absent of all joviality as he stated, “Jahaan, I have afforded you the opportunity to influence history. Choose wisely.”

The gravity of Sliske’s words sunk in instantly. He saw Zamorak begin to channel a spell, and Sliske just standing there, waiting, somewhat nervously.  _ Why isn’t he moving?! Why isn’t he trying to defend himself?! _

It was like the world was moving in slow motion, like everything was underwater.

Jahaan thought the choice was obvious. He had some of the Stone’s energy inside him still, and if he helped channel a spell at Sliske alongside Zamorak, then perhaps it would mean an end to all his games, his charades, his war and insanity. The shadow that had loomed over Jahaan’s life for so long would be gone, and he’d be free from the wretched puppeteer.

But as quickly as those thoughts crossed his mind, so did their counterparts.  _ Should Zamorak really have the Stone? And it wouldn’t just be him having that power, it’d be all his followers. Zemouregal, Khazard and Enakhra… all of them would have even more power and influence over this world. One of them would be bound to follow in Lucien’s power-hungry footsteps. And I’d also be making enemies of Azzanadra, Wahisietel and Zaros… ah, FUCK. _

Not allowing himself to think twice, Jahaan fought back his hesitation and channelled all the remaining power within him.

Just as Zamorak was about to strike, Jahaan cut in, hurling elder energy into the deity’s chest. It winded him, but didn’t have a lasting effect. Confused, Zamorak’s betrayed and fiery glare settled upon Jahaan, and he readied a retaliatory strike. Edging backwards, Jahaan suddenly regretted all of his life choices. Luckily, before Zamorak could strike, he was yanked into the Shadow Realm and teleported away.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he recognised the blurry outline of the Empyrean Citadel wavering around him, cloaked in shadow and mist. The Stone, too, was beside him. As he caught his breath and tried to still his rapid heartbeat, Sliske’s laughter echoed around him. 

“Good show, Janny! You really did leave it until the most dramatic moment to upstage poor old Zammy. Needed a little help from yours truly, of course, but impressive nonetheless.”

Jahaan looked up and into the smirking, smug face of Sliske, and again regretted his life choices. “I didn’t do it for you. I didn’t want the Zamorakians having the Stone. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

“Ignoring that hurtful remark,” Sliske grinned. “I must know - what did Zammy offer you to become his lackey, hm?”

Too tired to think of a suitable rebuttal, Jahaan just sighed, taking a seat on one of the statue plinths. His eyes wandered about the Citadel. “He didn’t offer me anything. I liked his ideology; it makes a lot of sense, it’s practical... I didn’t mind going along for the ride, for a while. But I guess I can strike Zamorak off my Wintumber Festival card list…”

“Ah yes, Zamorak will certainly regret bringing you along,” Sliske smiled wryly. “Now, I have much to do, and as much as I enjoy your company, I think it’s time we parted ways. Do enjoy the scenery up here, though. I often admire the sunrise from such a view.”

Sliske placed a gloved palm atop Jahaan’s shoulder as he said, “Until the next time, darling…”

Within a blink, Jahaan was back in the material realm. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the blinding sunlight that was pouring into the Empyrean Citadel.

Peering over the edge into the clouds below, Jahaan rolled his eyes.  _ Fantastic. Couldn’t have transported me anywhere more convenient, Sliske? _

Luckily, he remembered the invitation box he’d kept after Sliske’s ascendency ceremony and hurriedly removed it from his backpack. With a deep exhale, he readied himself, opened the box, and was whisked away to the forest north of Ardougne.

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


End file.
